


We’ve Been Sent Good Weather

by Slightlylazymaru



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Mention and description of non consensual sex/ rape, Minor Character Death(s), Multi, Slow Burn, Torture, Violence, everything that is basically The Handmaid’s Tale you can find it here, multi-chapter fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:06:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22923811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slightlylazymaru/pseuds/Slightlylazymaru
Summary: The Handmaid’s Tale AU no one asked for.After the plague of infertility brought humanity almost on the verge of extinction, a radical political group called “Sons of Jacob” launch a revolution, and what was once known at the United States of America was changed into a military dictatorship, known as the Republic of Gilead.Sara Lance is one of the few remaining woman who are believed to be fertile, and so she’s forced to become a Handmaid.“And when Rachel saw that she bare Jacob no children, Rachel envied her sister; and said unto Jacob, Give me children, or else I die.And she said, Behold my maid Bilhah, go in unto her; and she shall bear upon my knees, that I may also have children by her. And she gave him Bilhah her handmaid to wife: and Jacob went in unto her. And Bilhah conceived, and bare Jacob a son.”
Relationships: Sara Lance/Ava Sharpe
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	We’ve Been Sent Good Weather

**Author's Note:**

> Big disclaimer : I’m Italian so English is not my first language. This story is also un-beta’ed so all mistakes are mine. I’m open to corrections and criticism ; again, English is only my second language so syntax and grammar might be a bit (a lot) off. I might also mix up British English with American English - I studied British English and live in London but I learned English by watching American shows so it’s all a bit messed up. Sorry about that.
> 
> About the story, like I put in the tags expect angst, lots of ugly and unpleasant stuff, possible torture, executions, no-con-sex and to top it off, possible minor character death(s).  
> If that’s your cup of tea thank you for reading this story of mine, if it’s not thank you anyway and I’ll maybe see you in my next story.
> 
> Enjoy.

She follows the Wife into the house, making sure she keeps her head down lest she gets accused by the Guardianescorting her of being _disrespectful_.

They walk past the stairs, past a door which, by the smell of bread and spices she can smell walking by, guess leads to the kitchen, through a heavy double door and into the living room.

She keeps her head down while the Wife bids her goodbye to the Guardian and thanks him for his work. He salutes her, clicks his shoes together and leave in silence, closing the door behind him.

The winged hat she’s wearing stops her from seeing much of the room. She can see the blue dress of the Wife in front of her, and her blue heeled shoes.

She can see the rich brown of the solid wood flooring: it was polished just this morning. She can smell it.

She can see the corner of a rug, thick and hand braided.

She can hear the tick tick of a clock. The sound is _full_ , deep, like the big old clock her father had. The one that belonged to her grandfather and his grandfather before him.

She can smells roses and a subtle hint of soap.

“You can sit down” the Wife says “ I don’t normally allow it but we can make an exception this time”

She murmurs her _thank you_ and sits on the two seater sofa behind her and she finally raises her head, looking straight at the Wife; Mrs Waterford.

She’ve seen her before, when she was at the Bishop’s house. She saw her at the New Rachel and Leah Center, together with the other Wifes, during the Matching Ceremony for the lower Commanders and Esteemed Guardians, where each on of them was given a Wife.

She saw her at a few hanging and executions.

She saw her when she was giving birth to her Commander’s son.

And yet, she never realised how stern and angular her face looked, or how pale her skin was - even paler than her own.

How her eyes were a pale blue, kind of grey-ish looking, her hair dirty blonde, tied in a tight bun at the base of her neck,and her lips rosy and full. They probably would’ve looked fuller if she wasn’t currently pursing her lips into a flat line.

“So this is your second posting” she says. She wonders if she actually doesn’t remember her or is just trying to fill the silence.

“Yes ma’am”

“Good. The last one was brand new, it was like training a dog. And not a particularly bright one.” Mrs. Waterford sighs like the memory of her previous Handmaids physically pains her and lays back against the armchair she’s sitting on. She crosses her legs at the ankle while she lights up a cigarette and takes a full drag,breathing in deeply.

Must be one of the perks of being the Wife of a powerful Commander, having cigarettes. They are banned now - with everything else that’s considered dangerous for the woman’s health, including reading and writing.

A woman’s mind is too weak to be able to read a book without being overwhelmed, and what use do they have of pens if women’s only job is to produce babies (Handmaids), clean and cook(Marthas), being a wife and a mother if lucky enough to have children (Wifes) ?

The only Women allowed to read and wield pens are the Aunts. They are the highest- ranking women in Gilead, even more so than the Wifes. Their main job is to train the Handmaids and keep a detailed records of all the births in the Country. They’re the only one who know every children’s bloodline. An important task to prevent incestuous matches, especially since Handmaids sometimes, desperate because they were unable to get pregnant from their Commanders, conceive with other men in secret. Usually doctors, the only other men that are allowed to be alone in a room with an Handmaid.

So,they must follow the law but still allow themselves some black market goods. Must be nice being able to bend the law in their favour.

She hasn’t had any alcohol in a bit more than five years, she thinks now. How she would love a glass of scotch right now.

Mrs. Waterford doesn’t seem particularly interested in talking now. She just sits lazily against the back of the sofa, pulling in the smoke deeply in her lungs and expiring slowly. Her gaze never leaves hers.

It’s unnerving.

The clock - she can see it now, on top of the chimney, big and deep brown. A grandfather clock - strike three times. The echo of the bell has barely left the room when the door opens.

Mr. Waterford steps in, smiling amicably at the two of them.

“Good morning darling” he says to his wife. She puts out the cigarette and stands up, offering him her left cheek that he kisses lightly.

Then she turns to the Handmaid standing in front of the sofa, her face turned towards the floor.

“She’s the new one. She was with the Bishop, remember? They have a little boy now, baby Michael”

“Ah, yes” he says, his voice deep and scratchy, like someone who’s used to smoke a lot. He turns to look at her fully, up and down “Blessed be the fruit. I’m Commander Waterford. Fred Waterford”

“May the Lord open” she replies “Praise be to you. May the Lord make me truly worth it” she recites the customary greetings to her new Commander. She looks up at him and he holds her gaze for a few second before smiling.

“Let’s hope so” he says. Then he looks at his wrist watch and sighs “I have a few calls I need to make in my office, some more work before tomorrow’s meeting with the other Commanders. I’ll be down in time for dinner “ he tells her wife.

“Alright dear, I’ll see you later then”

He kiss her cheek again, then turns toward her “Welcome home Offred, I will see you later” he says, and leave the room without expecting an answer back.

Offred repress a shudder. He’ll see her later at the Ceremony he means. It’s been 13 months for her, since her last one. They had to make sure she was properly healed after she gave birth.

She knew it was coming. Knew it would happen on the same day as moving in to the Waterford’s house. Still doesn’t make it easier for her. She still feel like she wants to throw up.

“I want to see you as few as possible” starts Mrs Waterford effectively pulling her out of her thoughts “Stay out of my way and we’ll get along just fine. Don’t give me trouble or believe me, I’ll give trouble back. Understood?” she fixes her with her icy blue eyes, almost white against the light of the sun shining through the windows.

“Yes ma’am”

“And don’t call me _ma’am_ ” she snaps “you’re not a Martha”

“Yes...Mrs Waterford “ she says back.

Ava. That’s her name. She remembers it now. Ava Waterford.

“Very well” She looks at her and is seems like she wants to say something else but she restrains and instead settle for “go to your room now. Top of the stairs, it’s the only door. Stay there until you get called down for dinner” with that she turns her back to her and pick up the half smoked cigarette lighting it up again.

“Yes Mrs Waterford” she replies dutifully and slowly walk towards the door and out of the room, down the corridor and then up the stairs, up, up, until she reach the bedroom assigned to her, opens the door, close it gently behind her - almost closed, the doors of the Handmaids’ bedrooms never close fully, they’re always an inch open - goes to the bathroom, lift the lids of the toilet and throws up.

Only bile comes out. But she throw up and throws up and throws up until nothing comes out anymore.

——

A chair, a table, a lamp. The windows with the white curtains and the shatterproof glass that opens only partly.

The white wall, with a single picture framed just above the bed, but with no glass: a print of flowers, blue, in watercolours.

On the ceiling a dangling lamp were there was once a Chandelier. They all but took out everything were you could tie a rope to. Or a sheet. Or a belt. Everything to stop them from escaping. That was their reality now, no way of getting out.

A single bed, evenly placed between the two walls, with two thin pillows on top and a white spread. There is a wardrobe in front of the bed, small, dark oak probably, looks handmade. 

Inside of it her Handmaid dresses, exactly the same apart from the different material for the change of seasons: red, with long full sleeves and the skirt straight and loose, ankle length, wool for the cold months and rough cotton for the summer. The white winged hats, her black shoes, low as to not damage her back. Her undergarments, long pants that reach down to the knees, loose, white. Her undershirt, long sleeved, loose around the torso, white. White socks, long up to the knees, to cover up the patch of skin left bare by the pants.

The gloves and the big,long cloak , are red like her dress. No part of her skin is to be left exposed. Her face is shielded by prying eyes, sinful eyes, _men’s_ eyes by the wide wings at the side of her hat. Even when she sleeps she must be covered at all cost. Lest her wandering hands were to touch exposed skin, seek and find pleasure. There was no pleasure in her life anymore, only duty.

The floor looks the same as the one in the sitting room, if not cheaper,dark wooden slats, recently polished. There’s a rug on the floor, right between the wardrobe and the bed, oval, probably handmaid too.

That’s what they like now; hand woven rugs, handmade furnitures, folk art, women-made things done in their spare time. Home cooked meals, archaic stuff.

A return to the traditional values, they say. To make everyone worthy of God’s love once again. Technology made everyone lose sight of what was important, they scolded, like family and children. Everyone was more interested in advancing their careers, no time to have babies, contraception method were overused, babies were aborted, there was just _no time._

So it had to be done, they concluded. If fertility had plummeted it was all women’s fault, because of their selfishness. Changes had to be made.

Gilead was created.

There is a chair in front of the windows and this is were she goes to sit down.

The windows is open and the gentle breeze rustle the curtains and caress her hands, the only part of the body, apart from her face, that is exposed.

She wonders what her experience in this house will be like. Her first one was ... rather troumatic. But then again, what haven’t been in the last 5 years? The life she knew was uprooted in a blink of an eye, or so it had seem, and every day has been one never ending nightmare after the other, one from which you desperately want to wake up from but that just keeps on holding you tight.

She gave up on opening her eyes now, gave up on the hope of waking up one day and realising that it all had been a terrible nightmare.

The nightmare is her reality now, and she intended to make the most of it.

Aiding Mayday for once. Helping handmaids and Marthas escape, the seldom Wife - only one so far that she knows of - and stealing as many informations as possible.

She hasn’t ended on the Wall in these past 5 years, and she counts this as her blessing.

Or maybe her curse. It’s hard to tell.

Like everytime she tries not to _think_ , her mind wanders to the baby -not her son. No. She refuses to call it as much. She was just an incubator,like a _bitch_ to be impregnated. That’s all - and she wonders if he can smell that his mother is not his birth mother.

When her sister was pregnant they used to read all those books about babies and how they recognised the smell of their mother, how there was a special bond between them or something like that.

Was is true? Would her baby know the difference? Would he miss her now that she was not in the house with him anymore? She breastfeeded him for the first 3 months of his life; they always prefer the natural feeding method over baby formula, extremely expensive and hard to come by, and so for three months her life was nothing more than breastfeeding and eating, sleeping, breastfeeding and.

She supposes it doesn’t really make a difference. How would a baby know who his real mother is? He would not remember anything anyway.

She didn’t want him to remember anything anyway. He was not _her_ son.

A movement out of the corner of her eye catches her attention, and she sees the shape of the driver through the courtains. He stops in front of the car and turns around, hands in his pocket. Lays his hip against the door and then looks up, right through the window and into her eye.

She flinches and move back, instinctually .

Eye contact is not permitted. He shouldn’t have done that. Why did he do that? Her source says there is an Eye in the house. It must be him.

Is it him? Is he trying to trick her? Catch her in sinful behaviour and denounce her? Arrest her? Hang her on the Wall?

She gets up from the chair and away from the window, turns her back to it and sit down on the bed.

The bells that tell the time strike five times.

Only three hours until dinner.


End file.
